curtain, so they didn’t demand
to be acknowledged. There was no sense of one’s privacy being in
danger, almost no sense that outside there was a world to intrude.
It was an atmosphere that just missed being intimate, like part of
an estranged past.
“You are American, yes?”
She really was a small woman, and her hair
was a pale, pale brown that looked as if it might have been frosted
with silver. Her eyes were large and green and worried as she
smiled at him—but one imagined that her kind of work was burden
enough. Guinness would have put her age at thirtyone or two.
“The clothes, yes? But it is very fashionable
to look like an American now, so perhaps you are not. You are
English, yes?”
She began taking off her sweater, rolling it
up over her shoulders, and it was then that Guinness noticed how
white her skin was, almost bloodless. Perhaps she was cold—as soon
as the sweater was off, she reached down and turned on an electric
heater. The flesh on her breasts looked tight and drawn up.
“You are English, yes?”
“I’m the Soldier, Janine.”
It was a perfectly instinctive reaction, but
the first thing she did was recoil, drawing in her breath and
clutching a corner of her sweater to her bosom as if she had been
startled in the bathroom by a spider. Guinness turned his eyes
away, giving her a moment of privacy, and found himself wondering
why it was that he hated his life so much. When he looked at her
again, she had put the sweater back on.
“I was not expecting anyone,” she said
calmly, the way any woman might who finds herself encumbered with
an unwelcome and bothersome guest, someone whom she cannot simply
dismiss. “But I know who you are—everyone has heard of the
Soldier.”
Guinness said nothing, and the woman’s faint,
mocking smile slowly died. He wasn’t angry, precisely; he was
merely disappointed—“ Everyone has heard of the Soldier.” It
made him feel like a freak.
“I need a place to stay, somewhere I can get
some sleep and not worry about who has a key. I’ll probably have to
have a car.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders, suddenly
all business, and Guinness experienced a little flicker of
sympathy. It was probably like this all the time for her, men who
knew just what they wanted. But clearly, standing alone in this
tiny room with Raymond Guinness, celebrated killer of men, she felt
no need for compassion from anybody. In her dark green turtleneck
sweater and her boots and her heavy brown skirt, she looked very
self-reliant, very tough—he liked her, although he perceived that
it would be a mistake to show it. And maybe she really was
tough.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. As you say, the clothes are
American—get me some new ones, and a razor, that sort of thing. I
had to leave all that, to buy some time. Can you manage
everything?”
Outside, on the street, there was a woman’s
laughter. Apparently one of Janine’s neighbors had found herself a
live one. But that might have been on another planet for all it
mattered now.
This one, whom Ernie had called “Janine,”
whose customers, if they knew her by any name, probably called her
something else, who might really be anybody, regarded Guinness with
dispassionate, appraising eyes. It was very possible she was trying
to decide what size suit he would need to blend in with the
shipping clerks and the cheese merchants.
“Yes, I can manage everything. Tomorrow
morning? Is this soon enough?” It was a real question, and he
nodded.
Yes, this would be soon enough. She had only
perhaps five hours, and that seemed all the time in the world.
. . . . .
“My friend Aimé has gone to Spain for two
weeks with her boyfriend. He is very rich and not so young anymore,
so perhaps he will marry her now and then she will never come back.
She left me the key to her flat. You will not have any disturbance
there—this one has been her boyfriend for a long time now, and she
never brings her other boyfriends there. Two
to be acknowledged. There was no sense of one’s privacy being in
danger, almost no sense that outside there was a world to intrude.
It was an atmosphere that just missed being intimate, like part of
an estranged past.
“You are American, yes?”
She really was a small woman, and her hair
was a pale, pale brown that looked as if it might have been frosted
with silver. Her eyes were large and green and worried as she
smiled at him—but one imagined that her kind of work was burden
enough. Guinness would have put her age at thirtyone or two.
“The clothes, yes? But it is very fashionable
to look like an American now, so perhaps you are not. You are
English, yes?”
She began taking off her sweater, rolling it
up over her shoulders, and it was then that Guinness noticed how
white her skin was, almost bloodless. Perhaps she was cold—as soon
as the sweater was off, she reached down and turned on an electric
heater. The flesh on her breasts looked tight and drawn up.
“You are English, yes?”
“I’m the Soldier, Janine.”
It was a perfectly instinctive reaction, but
the first thing she did was recoil, drawing in her breath and
clutching a corner of her sweater to her bosom as if she had been
startled in the bathroom by a spider. Guinness turned his eyes
away, giving her a moment of privacy, and found himself wondering
why it was that he hated his life so much. When he looked at her
again, she had put the sweater back on.
“I was not expecting anyone,” she said
calmly, the way any woman might who finds herself encumbered with
an unwelcome and bothersome guest, someone whom she cannot simply
dismiss. “But I know who you are—everyone has heard of the
Soldier.”
Guinness said nothing, and the woman’s faint,
mocking smile slowly died. He wasn’t angry, precisely; he was
merely disappointed—“ Everyone has heard of the Soldier.” It
made him feel like a freak.
“I need a place to stay, somewhere I can get
some sleep and not worry about who has a key. I’ll probably have to
have a car.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders, suddenly
all business, and Guinness experienced a little flicker of
sympathy. It was probably like this all the time for her, men who
knew just what they wanted. But clearly, standing alone in this
tiny room with Raymond Guinness, celebrated killer of men, she felt
no need for compassion from anybody. In her dark green turtleneck
sweater and her boots and her heavy brown skirt, she looked very
self-reliant, very tough—he liked her, although he perceived that
it would be a mistake to show it. And maybe she really was
tough.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. As you say, the clothes are
American—get me some new ones, and a razor, that sort of thing. I
had to leave all that, to buy some time. Can you manage
everything?”
Outside, on the street, there was a woman’s
laughter. Apparently one of Janine’s neighbors had found herself a
live one. But that might have been on another planet for all it
mattered now.
This one, whom Ernie had called “Janine,”
whose customers, if they knew her by any name, probably called her
something else, who might really be anybody, regarded Guinness with
dispassionate, appraising eyes. It was very possible she was trying
to decide what size suit he would need to blend in with the
shipping clerks and the cheese merchants.
“Yes, I can manage everything. Tomorrow
morning? Is this soon enough?” It was a real question, and he
nodded.
Yes, this would be soon enough. She had only
perhaps five hours, and that seemed all the time in the world.
. . . . .
“My friend Aimé has gone to Spain for two
weeks with her boyfriend. He is very rich and not so young anymore,
so perhaps he will marry her now and then she will never come back.
She left me the key to her flat. You will not have any disturbance
there—this one has been her boyfriend for a long time now, and she
never brings her other boyfriends there. Two
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